Her disgrace
You ask me to contemn you.
That is not so easy, although no one is infallible,
we are but human, but at the same time
we are not only human. There is more to our humanity
than we ourselves are quite aware of,
and although I could point out your faults,
they are but trifles in comparison.
Your hinted wrinkles vanish in the sunshine of your smile,
the shadows of your past are outshone by your beauty,
and the darkness of your soul, that you persist in boasting,
as if that was some protection or excuse for your indisposition,
are but shades like of mascara on the beauty of your soul.
Your poverty means only that you never have been spoilt,
and age is but increased nobility, maturity and wisdom,
each year adding to your merits of survival and persistence
and to my increasing love for you, according to what you deserve.
Contempt? Impossible. Respect? Of course,
and nothing so much more than that, except for love.
Poetry by Christian Lanciai
Read 972 times
Written on 2013-01-30 at 15:41
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